


Violetta

by alcyonejonquil



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: ...yes, A Merge of Earth and Nirn, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Opera Singers, But It's All Really Sweet, Crushes, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, I Know This Sounds Strange, I promise, Illia-Centric, Inspired by "La Traviata", Musicians, Romance, sooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 06:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21175010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcyonejonquil/pseuds/alcyonejonquil
Summary: Making your title role debut in one of the world's crucial operas when you're young and virtually unknown is tricky at best, downright nightmarish at worst.However, isn't love said to conquer all, or fix everything?All right, fair enough. It didn't for poor Violetta Valéry - but it justmightfor Illia. One lives in hope.





	Violetta

Such a lovely autumn afternoon it was, the one when she almost slipped on the freshly-cleaned spiral staircase and felt the entire production – the entire godsdamned _House_ – gear up to shatter and fall down on top of her.

A jest, of course. Management would have (quite happily, dared she say) found a replacement and remedied everything before she could have even uttered an “Ow!”. A broken ankle would have mattered so little, in the grand scheme of things. _They’re changing the Violetta on the 29th? Oh, well. That one’s barely been keeping her D-flat stable anyway._

It would be safe to presume, therefore, that what she felt hanging by a thread in that heart-stopping fraction of a second was only her _career_. Fine, perhaps she was being dramatic; her career for the foreseeable future, at the very least.

Why they’d even chosen her in the first place was still an absolute mystery. She'd been _convinced_, until the moment she saw the definitive list in plain black and white, they wouldn’t. A near-nobody from up north, with a few soubrette roles, a smattering of oratorios and not much else to her name. The audition happened to fall on one of her good days, it must have done. Though she’d adored the music, dreamed of it, hummed it incessantly, to herself and to those passers-by or fellow commuters unlucky enough to amble in her vicinity. When she went to the publishing house and bought the full score –

_That_ score. The score that was tumbling down a step, two, three, taking in soapy water alongside all the other sheet music and notebooks she’d had to let go of in order to steady herself with a hand on the bannister.

Hurried steps from below, and when she fully turned around, a tall figure leaning down, hair white as snow striking in the semi-obscurity.

Because Mara hated her, in fact. Or because She loved her.

He was… a chorister. A tenor. Altmer, old, much too old. Distant, and far too elegant for her to try and keep her composure around.

And, well, if her eyes had strayed from her scene partner over to the male section of the choir one too many times during the past month… that wasn’t so wrong, or so terribly bold of her, per se, was it?

He was holding the papers out to her with an expectant tilt to his eyebrows, and her tremulous thanks were met with the faintest hint of a smile – it was ridiculous, how long it took for the flames in her cheeks to subside afterwards. Utter nonsense.

Just as her feet carrying her outside during their fifteen-minute break, to the distant corner where he was nursing a cigar, was utter nonsense.

As was sitting down next to him on the cold bench, diligently sipping mouthfuls of her sage tea.

He didn’t show any inkling of annoyance at their closeness. In effect, he gave no indication of having noticed her at all.

Right as she was summoning the courage to get up, he exhaled a thin puff of smoke and remarked, matter-of-factly, as if they'd have started conversing hours ago:

“Our Alfredo isn’t quite judicious enough with his strength, is he? He tires very quickly for his age, especially once he _thinks_ he’s out of the woods – out of the second act, mainly – and lets go of the reins completely.” A sigh. “Efficiency is the most difficult skill to master, though, that is true.”

He threw her a look from the corner of his eye.

“You are much more advanced in that respect than he is. Not nearly the same amount of raw power, but you compensate with discipline. It will take you far, if you let it.”

She’d rarely had anyone share their opinions with her like that. Her thoughts must have been showing plainly on her face, as he shook his head gracefully and let out a brief laugh.

“’_What in the world is this fellow giving me lectures for?_’ My apologies. I did not mean to importune.”

“Oh! You haven't, not in the slightest! Aren't we to keep an open mind, always, hear what folks have got to say, ‘steal’ any idea we may find worthwhile?”

“… Indeed. An admirable perspective. Was it a teacher who told you this?” She nodded, and was rewarded with a thoughtful hum.

He seemed content to enjoy the companionable silence for a while.

_(Whatever was it about his demeanour that could put her at ease so quickly?!)_

“You are familiar with the role, then?” she inquired at last.

“I am,” he said, and a strange expression passed over his features. “I used to perform it quite well.”

He straightened up suddenly, uncrossing his slender legs and picking a stray fallen leaf off his impeccable navy-blue coat.

“Still, time has not been kind to my voice, dear Violetta,” he supplied with a bitter grin, “and, as Monsieur Germont has been intent on reminding you, neither does it wait for anyone.”

He stood up, offering her a hand, which she hesitantly took.

“Not even for two weary musicians on rehearsal break.”

They were slowly walking side by side towards the doors, when she couldn’t, just found it impossible to keep her thoughts to herself:

“Forgive me, but you are certainly not helping matters.”

“Pardon?”

“The tobacco. It would be so much easier on your voice if you quit – or cut down on it, at the bare minimum.”

There she was, in her mid-twenties, telling him what to do. Well done, Illia.

They were both silent for a few moments. His eyes gazed attentively upon her face.

“You are correct, of course.” He raised his chin in a barely-there motion. “Very well. As Mademoiselle Valéry wishes me to, it would be terrible of me not to try.”

And…

It grew from there. Like a snowball. They’d sit together and talk when they were inclined to. Then they found themselves perpetually inclined to, and that was when people started whispering. What scandal! The leading lady and some old elf! With no connections, no influence, no nothing – doesn’t even help her professionally in any tangible way, what in Oblivion…?

If they already insisted on gossiping, who was she to deny them (and herself) by not making sure they gossiped about something real?

So, she pulled him into her dressing room one morning, two weeks on the dot away from her debut, and – tried her best to keep quiet, but was it her fault, verily, if the walls had been built so _thin?_

The day after, she watched him breeze through the brilliance of the Matador Chorus in act two, waited for him near the back entrance and somehow managed to maintain proper decency and decorum until they reached her apartment and her huge, outmoded chaise longue.

And by the time their breathing was slowing back down to a reasonable rhythm and she was positively melting into his arms with contentment and exhaustion, on the brink of dozing off, she had significantly warmed up to the idea of such an interesting arrangement.

It _did_ the trick – and how splendidly! He’d needed a few hours of browsing the score to somewhat reacquaint himself with the male protagonist he hadn’t studied since his conservatory days; but once he had, and once he’d perfectly memorised the stage directions, they turned her living room into an improvised studio and made use of every second at their disposal. Voices at half-strength, with the neighbours in mind, they practised and ate and slept and… _and_.

They only stopped when the touch of Alfredo (not _her_ delightful Alfredo, but the other, boorish, half-baked one the public was paying serious coin to see her fall madly in love with) began to make her skin crawl, and she caught herself flinching away from him. Which was not acceptable, no.

Things were different, though, when the fateful night came. Different, yet curiously the same. The spotlights felt harsher, admittedly, as did most everything and everyone else, and the clean, orderly rows of red waiting beyond the curtain had morphed into this breathing, writhing, glittering multicoloured mass sprouting infinite pairs of eyes that had no other business except for drilling holes into her. But... what could you do, hm?

“You wanted to lead? Then lead. The chance is yours.”

His tone was smooth granite warmed by a midday sun, and she was only too happy to grapple onto it with tens of thousands of eager little vines.

No sooner had the first intermission sounded than (in full sight of the whole backstage crowd) her trembling fingers were clutching the back of his neck, since she couldn’t bring herself to believe she’d pulled the blasted aria off with a scratchy throat and _could they tell it was that bad? Are you sure it didn’t waver horribly on that “Gioir?” Truly? Oh, I hope so, oh, my dearest – thank you, Divines!..._

And she died, covered in sweat, clutching at her chest, an hour and a half later, as she was supposed to.

And while she died, she looked towards a certain sliver of darkness in the backstage entrance, smiled at it and basked in its smile in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this would take place in a modern Tamriel (?), or a strange blend of our Earth and Nirn... but one where Verdi... had existed. And I guess he'd have been an Imperial, then, wouldn't he? Huh.
> 
> Anyway, this is what making the mistake of rewatching a production of "Traviata" at six in the freaking morning after a sleepless night resulted in for me. So... I hope you've enjoyed the little experiment, and thank you for reading!!


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